e raft with its tented city of life was preparing to
tie up for the night. A quarter of a mile ahead the river widened, so
that on the far side was a low, clean shore toward which the efforts of
the men at the sweeps were slowly edging the raft. York boats shot out
on the shore side and dropped anchors that helped drag the big craft
in. Two others tugged at tow-lines fastened to the shoreside bow, and
within twenty minutes the first men were plunging up out of the water
on the white strip of beach and were whipping the tie-lines about the
nearest trees. David unconsciously was smiling in the thrill and
triumph of these last moments, and not until they were over did he
sense the fact that Bateese and his crew were bringing the bateau in to
the opposite shore. Before the sun was quite down, both raft and
house-boat were anchored for the night.

As the shadows of the distant forests deepened, Carrigan felt impending
about him an oppression of emptiness and loneliness which he had not
experienced before. He was disappointed that the bateau had not tied up
with the raft. Already he could see men building fires. Spirals of
smoke began to rise from the shore, and he knew that the riverman's
happiest of all hours, supper time, was close at hand. He looked at his
watch. It was after seven o'clock. Then he watched the fading away of
the sun until only the red glow of it remained in the west, and against
the still thicker shadows the fires of the rivermen threw up yellow
flames. On his own side, Bateese and the bateau crew were preparing
their meal. It was eight o'clock when a man he had not seen before
brought in his supper. He ate, scarcely sensing the taste of his food,
and half an hour later the man reappeared for the dishes.

It was not quite dark when he returned to his window, but the far shore
was only an indistinct blur of gloom. The fires were brighter. One of
them, built solely because of the rivermen's inherent love of light and
cheer, threw the blaze of its flaming logs twenty feet into the air.

He wondered what Marie-Anne was doing in this hour. Last night they had
been together. He had marveled at the witchery of the moonlight in her
hair and eyes, he had told her of the beauty of it, she had smiled, she
had laughed softly with him--for hours they had sat in the spell of the
golden night and the glory of the river. And tonight--now--was she with
St. Pierre, waiting as they had waited last night for the rising of t